The Night of and the Morning After
by a perfectly healthy clown
Summary: "Holmes," he sighs, and you want to take that noise and keep it forever. You want to replay it at night, when you can't touch him, when you can't bear to be away from him for a second longer.


You want him. Although, that much is fairly obvious.

You're fresh from a bath, hair dripping wet and pushed from your face, skin pink from how hard you've been scrubbing. You can't tell if you look bad, but, oh, God, you feel so bad. You're standing in his room, fresh from a bath and in your nightgown, watching him. He's on the bed, one shoe off and one shoe on. He's staring at you, his eyebrows furrowed in concern. He's talking to you. You can't hear him. You're watching his lips, but you can't hear the words from them. "Holmes," he's saying, "are you ill?"

He's in his shirtsleeves and trousers. And he's watching you, so concerned, so worried, and you're watching him, fresh from a bath and wanting him to caress more pink across your bones. It's awful, you know it, but you're still walking over to him, dropping to your knees, touching his knees. You feel confident, but your hands are shaking, your fingers are curled, and they are betraying your feelings. You want him, you want him, but you're terrified.

He's terrified. His head is lowered, watching you still. He isn't shaking, like you. He is strong, unlike you. "Holmes," he whispers, and he means for it to come out like a question, but it isn't a question. He knows what you are doing.

The curtains are drawn closed. The door is shut. It is locked. Your eyes are open, and he is staring at you as if this is the first time he is meeting you. There is no more doctorly concern behind those eyes. There is only hunger. You feed off it. You're running your hands up his thighs. You feel sick to your stomach, but that is conditioning, and you think you can ignore it if you don't think about it. He's ignoring it. He's falling back onto an elbow, stumble, stumbling. He's laughing, smile big, eyes bright, and you feel like you're dying.

"Holmes," he says, and it's hushed amongst laughter and his grins. "Be careful."

You're careful. You're so careful. He pushes his braces from his shoulders, and you're working the fastenings from his trousers. You mess up a few times, but he's patient, watching you, watching you. You're watching him now, feeling along the fabric over his thighs again. His trousers are undone, and he's sitting back up. The bed creaks, and he looks at the door as an automatic reaction. He is pale, and you are pink, and he drops his hands between his legs. You're watching his hands now, watching them move, work, watching them shed his trousers. You have to break away, have to get on your hands and knees to remove his other shoe, but then you are helping him pull those trousers from his legs, discarding them to a spot on the floor you will forget in a matter of minutes.

When you raise your head, you have already forgotten. You have forgotten a lot of things by the time you raise your head. He has removed his shirt while you were removing his trousers, and he's looking at you, chest heaving, inhaling, exhaling, and you think that sight is wholly beautiful indeed. "Holmes," he sighs, and you want to take that noise and keep it forever. You want to replay it at night, when you can't touch him, when you can't bear to be away from him for a second longer. He's making the noise again, but this time, it's cheerful—laughter. He's laughing. "Well, Holmes, do you have any idea what it looks like we're about to do? I have a few assumptions. How about yourself?"

"Oh, Watson," you say, and you feel along his thighs again, thumbs doing circles, fingers squeezing, greedy. "I'm afraid to say I only have one scenario in my mind, but I am not afraid to say that it is the correct one."

And then, you are not on the floor anymore. He is wrapping his arms around your torso, lifting you onto the bed with him. It's quite something, to have his arms around you in such a protective grasp. He's holding onto you, away from the monsters, and you let him. You want him. You want him.

He's kissing you. You don't realize it's happening until his tongue is in your mouth. You touch his shoulders, his neck, and he's running his hands down your back. You think it foolish to be the only one wearing clothes at the moment, but he doesn't think so. He enjoys it. The softest sounds are leaving his lips as he gathers the hem of your nightgown into his hands, bunching it over your hips. Your eyes are closed. You bite your lip when he runs the palm of his right hand over an arse cheek. He's rolling you two over now, both hands on your arse. Your legs are spread, and he is between them, sliding, sliding, and when you kiss him this time, it's as if sparks are flying.

You are moving. He is moving. You're shifting down. He's shifting up. You're leaning on your elbows. He's leaning against the headboard. You're going to do something you've only thought about. He's staring at you with that hungry look in his eyes again, and you know he's thought about this, too. It's beautiful. This is beautiful.

You're tasting him, inch by inch, going down the length of his body like he is a cold body you are inspecting. His body is warm, and when you poke at his side, he laughs, and when you dig your teeth into the inner part of his thigh, he groans. It takes away your breath, causes you to meet his eye and kiss his parted lips and take away his breath, too. It's only fair, you reason. It has to be fair.

He cards his fingers through your hair, still wet from your bath. He doesn't mind. He's drying it for you with his warm hands. "Holmes," he whispers, and then you go back down, between his legs, tasting him again. His hands are still in your hair, pulling, pulling, and you're taking him into your mouth as far as you can handle. You've wanted this for so long. You need more. He needs more. He's pulling at your hair, pushing you down, sliding you up. You're sloppy. He loves it. When you sit up, you have drool and something else on your chin, and he stares at you like he is your doctor again. He wipes from your chin with a quick swipe of his thumb, and he sticks that thumb in your mouth. He watches you, and you watch him, and your cheeks are still pink, and your lips are red, and you think he looks utterly enchanting with those playful eyes and a curl to the ends of his mustache.

He's kissing you again. You're drooling again, but he doesn't mind. He's pushing you onto your back, climbing between your legs again. Your nightgown is hitched to your stomach, and you can feel his wet prick lying against your thigh. It's terrible to be affected like this, but you love it. You love him. Oh, Lord, you love him.

His hands are shoving beneath you now, lifting you again. He presses you onto your stomach, and he grabs hold of your hips, up, up. You know what he's about to do, and you find yourself whining in anticipation. He's sitting behind you, his hands on the backs of your thighs, and he's laughing, shaking his head. "Holmes, I think you are going positively mad." And you are. You are going mad. He's biting the curve of your arse, and you're going mad. His tongue is against your hole, and you are going positively mad.

He's tasting you, inch by inch, like you are the patient he's having trouble diagnosing. It's painful to think about the morning after, so you don't. You think about his teeth scraping against your skin, the pad of his thumb rubbing circles against your hole. You want him. You want him. He wants you. He's spitting, and it's rolling down your skin. The bed creaks when he gets up, when he leaves. You can't raise your head. Your eyes are closed, cheek against the mattress. You want more. You want so much more. He's giving you more. He's back on the bed, pressing his slick index finger inside.

It's too much. It's not enough. You can't raise your head. He has a hand on your back, holding you down. "There, there," he says quietly. "I've got you. I've got you. You're doing so well."

It's everything you could want from him, but he gives you more. When you are relaxed, when you are ready, he rolls you onto your back and kisses you. You can taste yourself on his tongue, and he can taste himself on your tongue. You shove your fingers into his hair, and he raises your leg onto his shoulder, and he takes you. He takes you. "Watson," you sigh, "take me, take me."

He is slow, but the bed still moves. You don't care. You don't care. You're pulling at his hair, and he's grinding against you, and you're whispering, " _John, John_ ," because this is a sin only he can hear. He's kissing your sins and giving you his own, offering you a rushed " _Sherlock_ " when you clench around him a certain way. You know his body, and he knows yours. You've been dying over this, and he's been pining just as much.

He comes inside you, and you've never thought it would feel this good. You're tired, sore from endearment, but he's moving down your body. You allow your legs to fall open. You have to, you have to. He takes you again, all the way to the root, and it isn't long before you are coming inside him, voice hushed and blocked by his fingers in your mouth.

You're tired. He's tired. He falls asleep half on a pillow and half on top of you. Your feet are hanging off the bed, and you don't think about the monsters, and you don't think about the morning after.

But when the morning after comes, you have to think about it. When the light dares to peek through the curtains, you have to think about it. When you wake to his fingers through your hair, to his voice counting your curls, you have to think about it. You think about it when you open your eyes and see him look at you like he has always looked at you. And that's when you understand. "John," you say. "You cannot possibly know the extent of my love for you.

"Sherlock," he says. "And I you."

He kisses you, and it's sweeter than the night before. You hug him, and he hugs you.

He dresses in a hurry, pulling on clothes, and you fix your nightgown, push your hair back off your face, but he catches your fingers, kisses them. "I do rather like the curls."

You are sheepish, curling your toes and averting your eye.

You disappear into your room with plans to visit him again the following night, fresh from a bath, hair dripping wet, skin pink from how hard you've been scrubbing. You might look bad, and he might jest, might ask if you are ill, but he will take you, and you will take him, and you won't think about the morning after.


End file.
